190
THE FATE OF A CITY.
When time's cold scythe has swept away
The pride of all this busy town,
And, yielding to its mighty sway,
Its buildings sink in ruin down;
Its streets forsook, its temples bare,
Upon its quays the wild-bird lone,
And, where its thousands rent the air,
A stranger sitting on a stone;—
The pride of all this busy town,
And, yielding to its mighty sway,
Its buildings sink in ruin down;
Its streets forsook, its temples bare,
Upon its quays the wild-bird lone,
And, where its thousands rent the air,
A stranger sitting on a stone;—
As, gazing on those ruins wild,
He muses on its former state,
Its loaded marts, so closely piled,
Its wide-spread commerce, and its fate;—
Ah! human glory!doth he sigh,
How short thy date, how swift thy doom!
A few brief centuries hasten by,
The busy town becomes a tomb!
He muses on its former state,
Its loaded marts, so closely piled,
Its wide-spread commerce, and its fate;—
Ah! human glory!doth he sigh,
How short thy date, how swift thy doom!
A few brief centuries hasten by,
The busy town becomes a tomb!
